Sitting handcuffed in the interrogation room, I started to sweat. They had the room at a cool 65, but I was wearing lots of layers. I asked the police officer if I could take them off and he said yes, but then I got too cold and he wouldn’t let me put any back on. 

My best friend Tommy was in the other room, probably getting the same treatment. But Tommy was a weak-willed coward, and these cops knew it. I told them on the ride over. I couldn’t take the chance that he was going to snitch on me, and the only way to stop him was to snitch on myself first. I could only imagine what they were doing to Tommy, probably torturing him or talking to him sternly. Tommy hated being tortured. 

The detective came in and I told him I wanted to confess. He told me that Tommy had already admitted to everything, that bastard. That was messed up for him to say because Tommy was raised by a single father and we had robbed the bank together. 

“Please, detective. I robbed the bank all by myself,” I pleaded.

“Sure, and I’m supposed to have a license for this thing,” he said, firing three bullets into the wall before leaving the room. 

I carved my confession into the table with a swiss army knife after drafting it using the pen and paper they had left. The officers were playing tricks with my mind, not even using my real name, instead referring to me as “vague accomplice” or “the innocent one.”

After what I thought was two days but was really four hours according to my digital watch, the detective came in to let me go. Tommy was going away for a long time, but I was being set free. It looked like my confession had worked, for now. Two weeks later I was arrested for loitering and was sentenced to death, alongside my best friend.